


if at first you don't

by ShowMeAHero



Category: IT (1990), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputee Eddie Kaspbrak, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, First Kiss, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Stanley Uris Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26256058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: Standing up to the clown, that’s nothing. The prospect of a world without any of the other Losers is far more terrifying than pushing his way past them to put himself between them and It. It’s an easy choice to get up and try to kill the thing rather than let it take them from him.It’s not as easy to look It dead in the face from less than a yard away.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 24
Kudos: 154
Collections: it (1990) one-shots





	if at first you don't

**Author's Note:**

> oh did i have other work to do?? do i have c*mmissions?? do i have jobs??
> 
>  **no.** all there is is miniseries reddie.

Eddie tries not to consider himself brave or cowardly. He just _is._

When pressed, he’d probably say he’s not a very bold guy, but he’s never had too much of a reason to be, not really. He’s got his own business, he’s never had a long-term relationship, he lives with his mother. On a day-to-day basis, he’s not pressured to make particularly brave decisions. Normal people don’t really have a regular need for courage.

All this is just to say that he feels like a man possessed when Pennywise — It — when whatever _It_ is rears its hideous head with the intention of killing his friends. His friends, his _family,_ the only people who have ever truly loved the _real_ him and had the real him love them in return— and It wants to _kill them._ Eddie’s blood boils in a way he’s not sure it ever really has before now.

Standing up to the clown, that’s nothing. The prospect of a world without any of the other Losers is far more terrifying than pushing his way past them to put himself between them and It. It’s an easy choice to get up and try to kill the thing rather than let it take them from him.

It’s not as easy to look It dead in the face from less than a yard away. The creature sinks its monstrous claws into him and hoists him up off the ground, he doesn’t even know how far, and then he’s looking directly into Pennywise’s beastly eyes, so inhuman and _inhumane_ and _terrifying_ that he feels like his heart stops for a second before, he thinks, it might stop for good.

Below him, he hears Richie’s voice. He’s not even entirely sure what he’s saying, but he knows it’s Richie, and he just thinks, _Oh, thank God, I won’t be alone._

When he sees teeth and lights he slams his eyes shut. He doesn’t think he should have to see his own death, nobody should have to see that, and so he thrusts his arm forward blindly, his aspirator still clutched tightly in his hand. He tries to think hard, tries to believe the aspirator is filled with acid or poison or mustard gas, and keeps his eyes closed tight. The inside of Pennywise’s yards-wide mouth is hot like the mouth of Hell; Eddie cries out, slamming down the back of the aspirator.

He feels Pennywise bite into his shoulder first, then his arm, then his _chest,_ with such searing pain like he’s never felt before.

He knows he screams because he couldn’t possibly be doing anything else. It’s a slow and painful agony as Pennywise sinks its teeth into the joint of his arm and leisurely tears it from his body. Fleetingly, Eddie thinks he’d rather be dead than die like this; it’s only seconds later that he collides hard with the stony ground beneath him. The back of his head cracks off the rock, his entire back feels like the skin’s been torn off, and his _arm—_

“Richie,” he manages to gasp out. He’s not even sure why — in the moment, at least — but his is the only name who comes out of his mouth.

“Hey, hey, I gotcha, Eds,” Richie’s voice says. He was right to call for him, then, because he can’t be all that far.

Big hands cup the back of his head, and he cries out, writhing away from them. He feels like he’s on fire all over, his eyes burning, his chest screaming with an agony almost like ice, settled deep inside of him. He can almost feel every beat of his heart as it throbs in a slow, syrupy pulse, thunking against his cracked ribcage every now and then.

“I’m sorry, sorry,” Richie apologizes. His hands cup Eddie’s face instead and turns it towards him. Eddie wants to cry and push him away and tell him to leave, because he knows Pennywise still has to be there behind him, but the words won’t come. His chest feels like it’s crinkling up inside him, lungs collapsing. He regrets using his inhaler earlier; not only did it not work, but now he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to breathe again.

“Go,” Eddie rasps out. He shoves as hard as he can, but Richie doesn’t let himself be moved. Someone drags one of Eddie’s eyelids open, and he jerks his head away.

“He hit his head,” someone else says. Eddie thinks it might be Bill, and that’s more than reassuring; he’s always trusted Bill to get them out of anything. He knows Bill can get them out of this, too, if anyone can.

“His _head?”_ Richie demands. “Look at his—”

 _“Richie,”_ Bill says sharply.

“Are you _kidding me?”_

“We have to go back to—”

“I am _not_ leaving—”

Eddie lets his eyes stay stuck shut, lets himself rest. He’s almost exhausted, he thinks, which is fair, because it’s been a long goddamned day. His arm hurts so bad that he wants to pass out, just so he can stop feeling it for a while, but Richie’s hand grabs his face and jerks him back into consciousness.

“Eds, you stay with me,” Richie tells him firmly. “Eds—”

“Richie, don’t call me that,” Eddie scolds him weakly. He feels sick, almost, and he tries to cough up whatever’s stuck in his chest only for it to get caught in his throat. There’s only a beat where he tries to breathe before he’s coughing again, hacking up something; Richie’s hand swipes under his mouth.

“Don’t talk, I gotcha,” Richie tells him. “I’ll— I’ll call you _Eddie_ all you want, don’t worry about it. And I’m gonna get you out of here, and everything’s going to be okay, so you don’t have to worry about a damn thing, Ed— Eddie, alright? Not a damn thing, I’ve got you—”

“Richie, we—”

“Shut _up,”_ Richie snaps at someone. Eddie hasn’t heard him so angry in a long time, he thinks. He wants to tell him to simmer down, because he always used to get so worked up when he was mad, but he’s tired. He’s so tired, and he’s starting to not feel the pain anymore. It’s starting to feel almost nice, like when you turn over in bed and find the exact right position to sleep in, and he sighs.

“Richie,” Eddie tries. He’s not sure how successful he is, but Richie cups his face anyways, trying to be gentle. Eddie steels himself not to flinch, this time. “Richie, go.”

“You’re insane,” Richie tells him.

“Pot, kettle,” Eddie says, and Richie laughs, choked. _“Go.”_

Richie says something back, but Eddie’s not sure what. He lets his eyes close again just because it feels so nice, and he snaps back awake to a sharp _smack_ across his cheek.

“I’m so sorry,” Beverly tells him. She looks over her shoulder at something; Eddie wants to ask what happened to Richie, but he can’t make his voice work. His chest is crinkled in like a ball of foil, no space for air, and he gasps. “I’m so sorry, Eddie, I’m so— I’m so sorry, I love you so much. I love you, Eddie, I’m right here. Right here, okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie breathes. He’s grateful that she’s here right now, because he’s not feeling brave or strong; he’s feeling terrified and exhausted and he’s starting to think he really might die, and he’s having a hard time accepting that. He thought clarity was supposed to come at the end, but all he feels is fear.

Bev leans in close until their cheeks are touching. Eddie exhales shakily, more a wheeze and a sob than a breath, and closes his eyes again.

He blinks them open to a crack of pain down his spine. Everything is swinging and swaying, and he thinks he might be sideways. He coughs, and blood spatters across the deep blue sky in front of his eyes.

“Holy shit, he’s breathing,” Ben exclaims. “Holy shit—”

“Help me—” Richie’s voice says, too close. Eddie reaches out for the sky; he doesn’t feel like he’s moving at all, but he tries anyways. The blood slides downwards in rivulets against gravity.

The next time Eddie wakes up, he’s flat on his back in the mud and the grass. The real sky is up above him, grey and wet, darkly ominous; the synthetic sky he’d seen earlier has been torn off of Richie’s shoulders and balled up against Eddie’s side to stop the bleeding.

“You have to stay with me, Eddie,” Richie tells him. Eddie blinks, just to try and clear his eyes, and Richie’s blur of a face swims into his vision.

“I can’t—” Eddie starts to say, before blood rushes up his throat again. He reaches for the ground to turn himself onto his side, but nothing happens. There’s only a brief flash of fatalistic terror before Richie bodily hauls him up and onto his side so he can vomit a chestful of blood into the dying grass by the creek.

“Yes, you can,” Richie says, over and over while Eddie tries to catch his breath. “Yes, you can, Eds, you’re going to be just fine. You can’t go anywhere, you’re staying right here with me.”

Eddie can’t get himself to argue with Richie again. He’s just so glad that they didn’t leave him behind to die alone in that place that he can only smile up at Richie.

“Thanks,” Eddie tells him. Richie’s hand grips his face, Eddie’s chin settling in the cup of his palm; Richie shakes him a bit, his face blotched an angry red. “Rich—”

“They’re here!” Bev calls from far away. “They’re coming down!”

“Hear that, Eds?” Richie asks him. “Big Bill went and grabbed us the car, so Ben’n I can haul you right up into it, and then we’ll be at the hospital lickety-split, alright? And they’ll fix you up real good, Eddie, I swear.”

“I don’t want to die,” Eddie confesses, even though he’s practically gasping the words out, now. He hears tires kicking up loose rocks somewhere close by.

“Good thing you’re not gonna die, then,” Richie says. Eddie stares up at his face as hard as he can. Richie, thank God, makes eye contact with him, and Eddie doesn’t feel quite so terrified. For a moment, at least, he’s not alone; he has Richie.

Eddie sighs. Richie shakes him again, so he says, _“Richie.”_

“Yeah, I’m here, Eds,” Richie says. “I’m here, I gotcha.”

Eddie’s not sure where the courage comes from this time. Like with Pennywise, he feels like a man possessed; like with Pennywise, too, he knows he’s going to die anyways, and so he thinks—

Well, if he’s spent his entire life stagnant and terrified, then there’s nothing to lose by trying _something_ in his last moments. Even if he _isn’t_ brave, something inside him that wants him to at least die happy or— or _realized,_ maybe— clicks into place, and he pushes his head up with the last of his strength to kiss Richie.

He misses by a long shot and bombs the kiss completely, smearing a streak of blood across Richie’s cheek to the corner of his mouth. It takes the last of his energy just to lift himself that much, anyways. He collapses back down in seconds.

“Eds,” Richie chokes out. He’s got his hand over his face where Eddie’s mouth just was like a girl getting her first kiss on prom night in some movie, and he looks so comically shocked that Eddie would’ve laughed, in better circumstances.

“I missed you,” Eddie tells him breathlessly. The pain keeps coming back in fits and starts, and he wants to sleep again.

“You’re not gonna have time to miss me again,” Richie promises him. “You just gotta stay with me, alright? Hey, Bill— _Bill,_ over here, right here—”

Someone else grabs onto Eddie’s shoulder, and someone else locks onto his ankles. They hoist him up, and the pain flares so hard and fast that Eddie whites out nearly instantly, choking on a whimper that crushes his chest.

His throat feels like it’s closing up, breath whistling in and out in thin, rasping gasps; he can’t get the blood out of his throat anymore, so he just tries to swallow it back, but he can’t make his muscles work. His head is screaming, his back throbbing, his legs aching, and he tries to reach for his face, but he can’t get his arms to go. Everything feels sluggish and slow and _stuck,_ pain licking in before ebbing out.

“Rich,” Eddie slurs. There’s more he wants to say, he thinks, but the pain flares again unexpectedly and he’s unconscious before he can finish the thought, even to himself.

* * *

The first thing Eddie becomes aware of is how bad everything hurts.

He groans, an unbidden sound torn from his chest. His initial guess is that he has some terrible flu, maybe, and he’s already frustrated that he’s going to have to figure out his own sick day schedule when he feels so miserable.

Then, though, he turns his head, and the pillowcase under his cheek crinkles. He frowns. His pillowcase doesn’t crinkle like that, isn’t thin and sterile like this one is. He forces his eyes open.

Above his head, all he sees is looping grey swirls on white popcorn tiles. He blinks once, to try and clear his vision, but it stays blurry. It takes him a second to realize he hasn’t got his glasses on. He tries to turn his head, but something’s blocking his way.

The shape blocking his way resolves itself into Richie, the longer Eddie spends staring at it, trying to figure out who he is. Richie’s all folded up alongside him, twisted like a pretzel to fit onto the hospital bed with Eddie. He’s got his head tucked on the pillow next to Eddie’s, eyes shut, fast asleep. His freckled face looks exhausted and wan, even while sleeping.

Richie’s whole body is tense, too, even though he’s still asleep. His arms are folded tight across his chest, his legs crossed hard at the ankles. His head’s tipped in just a bit, and his chest rises and falls evenly. Eddie wants to move, to touch him, but a thousand weights are dragging his limbs and his head down, and he can barely breathe.

Richie blinks slowly. Eddie can only stare at him as Richie slowly wakes up, then squints at him from only inches away. The two of them stare at each other for a second before Richie jumps, sitting up roughly.

“Eds,” he says, voice scratching. He doesn’t clear his throat or anything; he just ducks right back into Eddie, wrapping him up in a hug so tight that Eddie’s chest screams with pain, but he doesn’t care. He hugs him back just as hard, forcing his arm up around him even when the IV in it tugs. His other arm won’t move at all.

Eddie looks down, expecting to find his arm in a cast or something, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t _find it,_ it isn’t _there._ All that’s there is a tight wrap of bandages wound around his chest that stretches up and over his left shoulder. His arm underneath only seems like it goes for a few more inches; the entire thing is bandaged in white like a Halloween mummy. On the monitor attached to the finger clip on Eddie’s right hand, his pulse starts to race and his blood pressure skyrockets.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Richie assures him. “Eds, Eddie, it’s okay, you’re okay—”

“It’s _okay?”_ Eddie demands incredulously. “I’m— I’m _okay?_ Richie, my _arm—”_

“I know,” Richie says. The way he says it— it’s exactly how Eddie feels, horrified and pained and disbelieving. It’s like a nightmare he thinks he’ll wake up from; he can’t begin to believe that his arm just _isn’t there._ “I know.”

“What’m I gonna do?” Eddie asks. Richie draws back only enough that they can see each other again, but he doesn’t pull himself away from Eddie’s side. For now, Eddie’s glad for it; as much as it hurts, it’d hurt worse to be laying here alone, frigid and hurt.

“Well,” Richie starts, “I think, first things first, we’re gonna get you all healed up.”

“It,” Eddie chokes out. He starts to lift his head and push away, but Richie grabs his face in his hands and doesn’t let him go.

“It’s gone,” Richie tells him. Eddie’s terrified, but he can feel how true Richie’s statement is in his chest. It’s like how he’d felt when Mike called him; with a bone-deep certainty, he just _knows_ it’s true. “You helped us kill It. It’s not coming back.”

“Are you sure?” Eddie asks, because he _has_ to ask.

“I’m sure,” Richie answers. He strokes Eddie’s tangled hair back from his face. “I saw it happen. Everything’s okay now.”

“What about Mike?” Eddie asks. “A—And Bill? And—”

“Everyone’s okay,” Richie assures him. He keeps stroking his hair back from his face, and it’s starting to calm him down. The next time Richie touches his face, it’s more of a caress, and the pad of his thumb traces under Eddie’s eye, in a circle along his eye socket.

“What about you?” Eddie asks. Richie nods.

“I’m doing great,” he says. “Much better now that you’re up.”

“How long was I out?” Eddie asks.

“Not too long,” Richie says. “Just a few days. They said they thought you could be out for two weeks, at least, so, the fact that you’re up now— Oh, I should call the nurse, shouldn’t I?”

Eddie’s brain and chest scream _yes, call the nurse, call a doctor, bring someone who can fix this,_ but, right now, the only comfort he thinks will mean anything to him comes from Richie.

All at once, he remembers trying and failing to kiss Richie before he died. He short-circuits, for a moment, then says, “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re _sorry?”_ Richie asks. “What the hell are you sorry for, Eds? You haven’t done anything wrong. All you tried to do was save us—”

“And I failed,” Eddie tells him. “And I—”

“You _didn’t_ fail,” Richie insists. “All of us needed to help. It needed all seven of us to stop It. We _couldn’t_ have stopped It without you.”

Eddie’s brain whirls, spinning, trying to process all of this. He’s had the rush of memories already, and now the rush of emotion, and _now—_

“I don’t know what to do next,” Eddie admits. Richie smoothes his hand along the side of Eddie’s face. “I’m sorry I kissed you.”

Richie frowns, his brow furrowing. His entire face falls, after a moment, and he starts to withdraw, but Eddie’s right hand slides up to wrap around his wrist and keep him close.

“Not like that,” Eddie says. “I’m sorry I kissed you so late. And I’m sorry I did it without asking.”

Richie barks a laugh, then ducks his head down, letting their cheeks push together. He drags his face up until their noses are alongside one another; when Richie speaks, Eddie can feel the soft movements of his lips as he says, “You’ve never had to ask. I’ve wanted you to kiss me since I knew what kissing was.”

“You should’ve asked _me,”_ Eddie points out.

“Guess I should’ve,” Richie replies. He withdraws so he can cradle Eddie’s face in his hands, pushing in close. When their eyes are near each other, Eddie makes his focus; he can tell Richie hasn’t got his contacts in. He must not be able to see any better than Eddie can.

“Did anyone call my mother?” Eddie asks, abruptly afraid. “I don’t—”

“I told them not to,” Richie says. “And I’ve got more than enough backup. Plus, everyone here is on Mike’s sweet side, he’s already got all the nurses eating out of his hands.”

“Of course he does,” Eddie comments. “Charmer.”

“He always was,” Richie says. After a beat, he startles, jerking back out of bed with an, “Oh, _shit.”_

“What is it?” Eddie asks, heart racing. “What’s wrong?”

“I forgot to tell you,” Richie says. “Stan’s here.”

“Stan’s _here?”_ Eddie asks incredulously. His heart flips over, excited and disbelieving, but he can feel how true this is, too. “What did—”

“We don’t know,” Richie says. “Or, _I_ don’t know, anyways. I’ve been in here with you for about three days straight, so if they’ve figured out all the miracle mumbo-jumbo, I haven’t been informed on it.”

“Is that why you smell like this?” Eddie asks, and Richie _laughs_ laughs, a _real_ laugh. Eddie’s not sure he’s heard him so genuinely light-hearted and happy since they were children, before they graduated from Derry High School and their lives fell apart.

“Like you’re a prize right now,” Richie says. He strokes both his hands up through Eddie’s hair, palms flat to his head, so he can kiss him at his hairline. Eddie’s curls stick back when Richie releases him, matted with grease. Eddie thinks he wants a shower, a sandwich, and more sleep, and probably in that order, if he could manage it.

“If you help me up, I’ll make myself presentable for you,” Eddie offers.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Richie says. “Eds, for the love of— Sit back _down,_ you idiot, you’re going to hurt yourself. Let me call you a doctor and _then_ I’ll give you your sponge bath, how’s that sound?”

Eddie huffs a laugh. It hurts his chest, just a little, but it’s not so bad. He knows now he doesn’t want to see a doctor, or a nurse, or his mother, or any of the other Losers, even.

“Will you come lay with me for a little while first?” Eddie asks. “Just for a while. And then you can get someone.”

Richie evaluates him for a moment before he says, “Okay, Eddie Spaghetti. I’ll let you play hooky this _one time,_ if only ‘cause you never asked before.”

Eddie smiles at him. His reward is Richie carefully leaning in and pulling him in for a proper kiss, this time. He gentles his touch where he’s gripping Eddie’s shoulder, lets it trace up to his face, feather-light. His fingertips stroke along the hair curling at Eddie’s temple. His mustache and the inch of beard-stubble growing in scrape along Eddie’s raw skin in a way he’s never been kissed before, and he exhales shakily. He feels like he might either burst into tears or laughter; whatever the feeling is, it’s too big to keep inside him, leaking from his mouth to Richie’s.

When they separate, Richie’s smiling, too. Eddie reaches for him, and he goes, climbing back into the stiff, sterile bed. The two of them have to cram in side-by-side; Richie carefully maneuvers them so the nub that’s left of Eddie’s arm rests on his shoulder. They lay entwined together, Richie stroking up and down Eddie’s side while he kisses up his neck and cheek, over and over. It’s enough to make Eddie drowsy again.

“There you go,” Richie murmurs, near his ear. Eddie doesn’t even remember closing his eyes. “Get some rest, baby, get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Eddie can feel it in his chest that Richie’s telling the truth. It doesn’t feel particularly brave to fall asleep right now, but there’s a certain kind of courage in falling asleep knowing that he _doesn’t_ know what’s going to happen when he wakes up again.

**Author's Note:**

> You can (and should!) come chat with me on Twitter at [@nicole__mello](https://twitter.com/nicole__mello) (new @!) and/or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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